The Detective Dances
by Hanna B. L'Ectre
Summary: A Christmas gala turns into an internal struggle for Dr. Watson, as he watches his desires unfold before his eyes. Holmes/Watson


I realize that this is a ridiculous time for a Christmas fic. I fully expected to have this to you by Christmas Day, but unfortunately things turned sour. I hope you can forgive me, and accept this Christmas/New Year's/ Valentine's Day present from me to you.

**Disclaimer: As per usual, this is man-love. Beware. **

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THE DETECTIVE DANCES

Recalling my first Christmas at Baker Street, I am always brought back to the gala at Rutherford Estates. My first taste of uppercrust society, my companionship with Sherlock Holmes, brief though it was, had merited me an invitation to the Advent Gala held annually by the parliamentarian Lord Xavier Edgewick. Initially, I found this rather strange, given Holmes' clear abhorrence of anything of the sort, until I learned the reason behind the fact. Apparently, long before I met my misanthropic friend, Edgewick had begged Holmes—and paid him most handsomely—to locate his youngest daughter, who had disappeared from the train she was riding back to her home from boarding school. When he had succeeded (she had "disappeared" between her lover's bedsheets, as it were) Lord Edgewick, so grateful to have the pearl of his world returned to him safe and sound, pledged "eternal friendship" to him. In translation, Holmes had, much to his dismay, become an official member of Edgewick's social circle. Up until my arrival, Holmes had received three similar invitations, all refused, claiming sickness or some other similar excuse for his absence. I, however, was not about to let the opportunity slip past me to catch a glimpse of this glamorous world that I had previously known so little about. Young as I was, and still recovering from a grueling service, I was inclined to pleasures that now seem rather foolish to me, and, at the time, Holmes agreed.

However, at my persistent urging, Holmes consented to accompany me to the gala. We looked a strange pair: me, tan and trim in my pressed uniform, cane in my hand and a smile on my face; and Holmes, pale and seething in his stiff black suit. The only color to be found upon him was a stark red cravat, insisted upon by Mrs. Hudson, and the pink blush of cold on his cheeks. His eyes narrowed and darting back and forth over the dozens of party guests in their silk and taffeta, and I tried to imagine what was running through his mind as we made our way into the main hall. From the awful looks that he was throwing about, I could only conclude that none of it was pleasant. As we were ushered onward, my attention was soon diverted to my opulent surroundings. Each staircase, windowsill and lintel was decked in holly and ivy, every flat surface draped with embroidered silk and gold. The hardwood floors gleamed, the air was filled with the lilting chiming of chandeliers, and beyond, I could see the crowning glory—a towering cedar, at least ten feet in height and adorned with ribbons and baubles of all kinds. Standing as the centerpiece of the ballroom, the guests seemed to circle it like the Earth around the Sun. Everything was simply glorious…all save for Holmes. He looked upon all this as if it were one of the back alleys of Whitehall, rather than the one of the finest manors in London. Tapping his foot impatiently, he looked to me and asked, mockingly:

"Well, Doctor Watson? Are you satisfied with the pomp and vanity of it all?" His mouth was still downturned in a disapproving sneer. It astonished me that _anyone_, even Sherlock Holmes, could be so bitter and cold amidst such light and beauty.

"Oh, for God's sake!" I scoffed. "It is the Christmas season; at the very least you can enjoy the food and company, yes?"

"The company, Watson, I can do without. The food, on the other hand, I am entirely willing to enjoy. If you will excuse me, I will leave you to your…merrymaking." With a curt nod, he made his way to the sumptuous banquet tables, scrutinizing them with a keen eye. I, on the other hand, refused to let his reluctance ruin my fun. I had no idea where to begin, when out of the corner of my eye I spotted a young lady standing by the bay window in the back of the ballroom. Eyes hooded by her long lashes, she seemed to be watching the snowflakes as they fell against the panes. A black curl fell from its place at the top of her head, and with gloved fingers she quickly replaced it with a pearl-tipped pin. It had been so long since I had engaged in _any _casual conversation with a beautiful woman that I had nearly forgotten how. Nevertheless, I made my move, taking slow and careful strides toward her.

"Miss? If I may…" Her eyes—a most startling green—rose languorously to mine, and she smiled blandly up at me, as if bored with my very presence.

"Hmm? I presume that you wish to dance, sir. Would I be correct?" Muttering to herself, she straightened the rubies about her neck.

"Well…yes, I do indeed. This is a dance, after all, and you are without a partner." I smiled amiably and gestured toward the crowd, who had just stepped into a minute waltz. The woman's clear reluctance embarrassed me; my injuries had caused me to be quite self-conscious, and I felt certain that I had been judged by my clumsy gait and my rough hands before I had even introduced myself.

"Observant though you have proven you to be, I am afraid that, at the present time, I must decline."

"The 'present time', miss?" She nodded in response, but her eyes had moved past me to the dancing mass of guests behind me, searching diligently through the anonymous faces. "May I at least inquire as to who you are searching for?" Sighing in defeat, she conceded.

"I suppose it would not matter one way or another. You see, Mr…"

"Doctor. Dr. Watson."

"My father, Lord Edgewick—you look surprised, Doctor. Did you not know who I was?" I blushed deeply, feeling even more foolish than before. She thought this rather funny and chuckled to herself before continuing her explanation. "Well, never you mind. Anyway, my father, upon my request, has invited Mr. Sherlock Holmes to our home every year at Christmas. I have never seen him, though we have invited him now thrice before. Today, however, I happen to know that he hasattended with a friend of his, and I am most determined to speak to him again. He…well, he…" She paused at that, and smiled behind her hands. Her powdered cheeks flushed and eyes bright, I realized that the poor girl was smitten—smitten, no less, with a man who by my knowledge had no interest in romance at all.

"You wish to meet Sherlock Holmes?" Sighing heavily, as if nobody could possibly imagine her inner torment, she slowly painted for me a picture of her inner self: thoughtless and spoiled.

"I have already met him, Doctor. I wish to dance with him, but I simply cannot find him. Yet, even if I could…" Again she heaved a dramatic sigh, and the wayward curl fell against her cheek once more.

"Well, Miss Edgewick, I think that even _should _youask him, you would be quite disappointed. At this, her eyes darted to meet mine, and she took my hands into hers.

"Do you know him? Could you find him for me? Ask him to speak with me?" Startled by this sudden outburst I could not find the words to refuse her. "Oh, Doctor, _would you?_"

"I…suppose I could, but—"

"Oh, please!" she interjected. "I beg of you!" I could only take so many of her desperate pleas; it was really quite pathetic. I could only imagine how heartbroken she would be when he pierced her with his cold eyes and scathingly refused her. Nevertheless, I was in it now. There was no turning back.

"Very well, miss. I will speak to him." Giggling with ecstasy she floated away, finding a group of giddy girls much her age to divulge this latest development to. I found it fascinating that only minutes before, she was playing the part of a stoic, sophisticated woman. 'Truly,' I thought, 'the female species is a funny sort.' Summoning all of my courage I made my way to Holmes, who was standing in the darkest corner of the ballroom, nursing a pale wine, eyes transfixed upon all who moved—the waiters, the dancers…and me.

"Ahh, Watson. Your prospective dance partner has refused you, I see." His lips curled upward in what I thought was a playful grin; in the dark it was hard to tell.

"Indeed, Holmes. I, um…I failed utterly." He chuckled to himself, but said nothing more, turning his gaze to a young servant pocketing a spoon. "No, she is much more interested in…well, in dancing with you." An uncomfortable silence fell over the entire room, and although it was simply because the music had ceased, I felt as though the whole mansion was watching, waiting for Holmes' reaction.

"Miss Edgewick wants to dance with _me_?" For once, he was purely surprised. Shifting his weight from foot to foot, he was slow to answer, as if he were as disinclined to acquiesce as I had been to inquire in the first place.

"Will you accept? She seemed so eager…"

"Of course she is eager, Watson. She is a young, beautiful, silly girl, and her greatest desire in life is to put as many gentlemen under her spell as she possibly can. I know her well, Watson; you forget that I have dealt with her before. When I "rescued" her two years ago, she forgot her lover almost as quickly as she had found him. It is a _game_, Watson. It is all a game." He sighed heavily after he was done. "I will accept, for if I do not, I fear that her _father_, the greatest fool of them all, will oust me at gunpoint. Chaos will ensue, and the night will be ruined. I _do _have a care for the Christmas spirit, Watson, even if I choose not to indulge in it." Nodding curtly at me, he turned on his heel and headed to Miss Edgewick's side. I laughed as he bowed stiffly and offered her his hand; the sight was almost bizarre.

The pair stepped fluidly into the crowd as the violinists prepared a new piece. When the dance began, I made sure to keep my eyes on them, and soon I found—to my immense surprise—that Holmes was eclipsing them all in his skill. His movements were expert, and he guided his partner effortlessly around the other dancers. Even as reluctant as he had been to participate, he seemed to exude a kind of selfish joy from the act of the dance itself. Seeing the two of them, his hand upon her waist, his eyes upon her blissfully happy face, I felt a burning in my chest, one that I had not often felt in my short life: jealousy. How had Holmes done so easily what I could not? The feeling was absolutely agonizing. What was worse, however, was that the more I watched, the more I realized that it was not _Holmes_ that I was jealous of…it was _Miss Edgewick._ A shiver ran down my spine as I imagined myself in her place, whirling in his arms, his dark eyes warm upon my face. Finally, I could take no more. I ripped my eyes away, focusing instead on my pocketwatch, boring holes into its emotionless face and trying to ignore the growing lump in my throat.

After what seemed like an eternity, the violins faded into silence, and the dancers clapped and murmured their approval before parting ways to refresh themselves with wine and hors d'oeurvres. Holmes returned to my side, clearing his throat uncomfortably.

"Well…that is that. I really must remember to decline the invitations to this silly affair from now on. At least _you_ enjoyed yourself, am I right?" I nodded half-heartedly, making sure to keep my eyes glued to my watch. I dared not look him in the eye; could not risk the chance that he could peer into my soul and see my desire seething there.

"Holmes?" He was quiet for a while, and I finally got up the nerve to look up at him. When I did, he smiled and placed his hand upon mine. Slowly, almost tenderly, he eased the pocketwatch from my grasp and brought my fingers to his lips. The fire in my chest burned with a new fury, a terrible confluence of fear and elation, and my heart was fit to burst from all the emotions I had pent up inside.

"I think, Watson, it would be best if we take our leave." Dropping my hand, he straightened his cravat and made a path through the crowd. I followed as best as I could, my leg cramping from overuse.

By the time I made it out to the front lawn of the manor, Holmes was already standing by the gate, his breath coming in slow, steady plumes of steam. The entire mansion had been draped in a curtain of snow, and the transformation was absolutely breathtaking. In the strong moonlight, it seemed as if each flake glistened like tiny diamonds, and I thought, briefly, that perhaps I had stepped into another world, just Holmes and I, unfettered by the rest of humanity. He must have heard the crunching of my irregular footsteps, for he turned and beckoned to me with his pale hand. I made my way to him as fast as I could, careful not to slip upon the icy pavestones.

"Holmes," I spoke once I reached his side, "I take it that you have already called the cab?"

"Yes, yes, Watson. Never you mind all that." He stepped closer as he spoke, so close that I feared he would force me into the snow with the weight of his gaze. "You seemed rather…unhappy to see me dancing with Miss Edgewick, my dear Watson." My eyes widened and I laughed nervously.

"Well, Holmes, I really didn't mind it…"

"Hush, Watson." My mouth snapped shut, as if on command. "I found your reaction quite strange, given that it was _you_, after all, who urged me to attend this party and "enjoy the company", as you so quaintly put it." If it were possibly, he moved even _closer_, placing his hands upon my shoulders, supporting me. My mind fogged with delirium, I could only nod in response. "So I must wonder, Watson…"

"Er…y-yes?" I could barely speak, my words falling awkwardly from my mouth like rocks.

"I must wonder _why _you would react so strongly to it. When I looked over at you during the dance, you looked as if you wanted to spit fire at poor Miss Edgewick." Now I leaned into him, his body heat attracting me like a moth to a flame. "I can only come to one conclusion." He smirked and lowered his lips to my ear, and I gasped softly.

"What…might that be, H-Holmes?" He did not speak, only slid his arms around my waist and planted a cold kiss upon my neck. "Holmes…" Had I control over my mental faculties, I would have argued, would have fervently denied him. But he allowed no resistance, and I could not, _dared _not, push him away. Smiling against the line of my jaw, he welcomed the pressure of my body against his, and as we collapsed into the snow, we ignored the approaching cab, mistaking the drumming of the horses' hooves for the beating of our hearts.


End file.
